


Reverence

by pudgy puk (deumion)



Series: it sounds like a whisper [6]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Body Worship, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Times, Porn with Feelings, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27597890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/pseuds/pudgy%20puk
Summary: Learning what makes the other tick.
Relationships: Stephanivien de Haillenarte/Joye
Series: it sounds like a whisper [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1201918
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	Reverence

**Author's Note:**

> bitch i survived graduate school
> 
> anyhow this is some extreme self-indulgence, takes place in between chapters 1 and 2 of third time’s the charm and references some events from that story, so i’d recommend having read that.

It was a strangely awkward kind of intimacy, Joye thought, to learn how to use your lover’s bath. And surely it wasn’t too fancy or luxurious, like the baths in the manor, but still the spigots for hot and cold were well-made enough to be sensitive to the slightest adjustment, unlike the old tap at her home—so it took some fiddling to get a drawn bath that was comfortable enough for her to sink into. Her shivers subsiding, Joye took in the view of Stephanivien’s garret bath from a wholly new angle.

He did not have much taste for interior design—much less his mother’s taste—and that was true from any angle. Everything had a purpose, even the vase of flowers (heavily scented). He did have rather more soaps and lotions than she was used to or really expecting; perhaps his mother’s tastes had stuck in that regard. Next to the plainest-looking bar of soap (the one that Joye had decided she’d use) was one familiar thing, though: a big jar filled with fire shards, to refresh the warmth of the bath for long soaks. She had one at home, and the similarity was a comfort—it helped her forget the vast chasm in station between them, and even these days, even despite his reassurances, gazing into that particular chasm was still enough to make her head spin.

So instead, Joye thought of more comforting things. She thought about breakfast (the remains of yesterday’s loaf, the “lost bread,”sweetened and cooked with egg and syrup), about how soft and fluffy the towels were (he’d “borrowed” them from the manor, she was certain), about Hilda’s last visit (raving about a new spice blend for mulling wine), about Stephanivien. About his hands, his smile, about playing with his hair, kissing him... about that day she’d called him to her house on some pretense, then come to him almost naked, trying to make it like the most well-worn and comfortable love story she’d read. It hadn’t worked that way, and Joye still wasn’t sure if it was for the better or the worse: she was still a virgin, and now—

—Before, she hadn’t _really_ been afraid. True, she’d known it was supposed to hurt, the first time, but by all accounts that faded and she could see how many women were eager enough to keep lying with good men and anyhow a little pain didn’t frighten her. But before, the gossip and jokes and rumors about men’s cocks—about dimensions and feelings and _size—_ were ephemeral as her giggling at them, and now they weren’t. Now Joye had—felt, had stroked, had held her lover’s cock, and had imagined what that would feel like inside her, and couldn’t believe the stories she’d been promised anymore. Surely, there was something wrong with her—and privately, shamefully she doubted that even Stephanivien could fix it.

That was why she was here. After the second time he’d—he’d _stretched_ her, he had asked if she would let him learn her. What did he mean by that? she’d asked. He’d told her every person is different in what they like, in what they feel, and he wanted to learn about her—about all of her, and when he said it she’d felt both arousal and fear. It hadn’t been like that in books—there, men always seemed to know how to make their lovers moan as automatically as breathing, and since Stephanivien _wasn’t_ a virgin, she’d assumed... well. But it made sense, now that she was in a position to think about it reasonably—and the promise of more kissing, more touching, more of his hands—so she said yes. But—

But Joye hadn’t considered that by the time they’d agreed upon, she would have worked, she would have walked through snow, she would have used her body in other ways that never seemed to make it into good stories, either written or overheard. So when she arrived at his garrett red-faced and shrinking, he’d asked her what was wrong, and in a small voice she’d asked if she could take a bath first, feeling as awful as if she’d been mucking out stables instead of tidying an already well-kept household. And of course not only had he said yes, he’d offered to call it off, to wait until another day...but Joye was determined. She may have been afraid, but she’d also spent enough time with fear to know that putting it off forever wouldn’t help her. 

And—and anyhow, Joye thought, pulling her knees up to her chin, she didn’t have to do anything to him. Today he just wanted to explore her. That would be okay. 

She glanced sidelong at the bar of soap, and hesitated—but she did reach for it in the end, and worked up a lather in her hands before smoothing that lather over her legs. And she did at least have good legs, she thought, or at least good for a hyur: narrow ankles, wide calf, then shapely and substantial thighs. Of course she could never have legs as long as an elezen, but for what she was...

Joye frowned thoughtfully as she considered _what_ she was, when all was said and done. Because on one level, what she was was the mistress of an Ishgardian viscount (and yes, she’d thought about this and the evidence was overwhelming that “mistress” and not “tumble” was the word, maybe even—), and yet... and yet, she thought as the scent of the soap filled her nose as she lathered her arms, she wasn’t nearly as well suited to the role as others would be, certainly. Not that she wasn’t pretty. She was. But she was... merely pretty, she thought, standing to smooth the lather over her waist and down her hips. Merely pretty, with average hair, a figure only halfway decent with too much strength under the soft padding, and barely any knowhow of the arts that made pretty women _beautiful_. And those kind of women— _beautiful_ women—were the kind who wound up mistresses of powerful men in Ishgard. 

Not for the first time, she wondered again how he had come to love her. Because he did, she knew for a fact, but—how _she_ had managed to be the first to capture his heart still seemed like a minor miracle, entirely unrehearsed in any story or any gossip she had ever encountered. Whoever heard of a merely pretty maid charming a viscount with the steadiness of her shooting hand? It was more than a little ridiculous—

—Ridiculous like that same unbelievably lucky maid being afraid to lay with him, a nasty voice from the back of her mind piped up suddenly, ridiculous like a maid loving her master, ridiculous like how she must look compared to him, all lean and muscled, golden and towering and—

With her eyes screwed shut, Joye groped around for the jar of fire shards and dumped a fistful into the bath, the steam billowing out and hiding her from any judging eyes and voices, especially her own.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Joye said just before opening the door of the bathroom, a cloud of steam preceding her into Stephanivien’s bedroom. She just barely caught sight of Stephanivien putting a book aside, and then she had his rapt-attention... and never before had it felt so portentous. He was—it surprised her to realize she’d been expecting him to be lying on the bed, but he was sitting in the big armchair instead. 

“You’re red as a crab,” Stephanivien remarked, with a little crease in his brow—it looked like worry.

And she was feeling more than a little boiled, but still Joye said “I’m fine,” and began walking towards him. Even though the towel she was wrapped in was very large compared to her and of premium fluffiness, still her arms and calves began to prickle with goosebumps. For a moment she hesitated before him—then he opened his arms in welcome and she sat on his lap, resting her side against his front.

_Now what?_ buzzed uncomfortably in her head, as she waited to be acted upon, to be learned, but Stephanivien just held her—not parting her towel, not commenting on the wetness of her hair against his shirt, just holding her, like he had that day in her room. It was nice.

“Do you like lavender?” Stephanivien asked after a few moments. Joye nodded into his chest, but with a slightly bemused knot in her brow. “I have a lotion, if you would like.”

And so that was how it would begin, Joye thought, and she quivered but nodded more emphatically, straightening up and away from him as he reached to a little jar, next to where he’d put his book. With her back to him, perched on his knee, and already nervously primed, the sound of the jar unscrewing seemed loud and the interval between that and his touch seemed to last an eternity. And when he did touch her, it was gentle—his fingers softly smoothing up and down her arms, which seemed like a strange location for a man to touch to learn his lover’s wants, but she didn’t protest. Stephanivien seemed to want to take this slowly, Joye thought as she lifted her arms—he responded to the unspoken prompting by curling over and around her, to rub the lotion into her forearms and hands, and she shivered at the reminder of his size, feeling the strength in his hands and gazing at his—gods, from heel to fingertip they were almost as long as her forearms...

He kissed the top of her head. “All right?” Stephanivien whispered, rubbing his thumbs into the palms of her hands. Joye closed her hands around his fingers—then, on impulse, slowly slid her grip along their lengths. He chuckled, but still asked “That’s a ‘yes’?”

“Yes,” Joye said, with unanticipated emotion in her voice—but he was just so _good_ to her, so tender, so patient—she couldn’t help herself, she blurted out, “How many virgins have you had, milord?”

Stephanivien froze, and made a noise deep in his throat that sounded suspiciously like a stifled cough. “I— _how many_...”

Joye gripped his hands tighter, rubbing at his knuckles. She hadn’t meant to alarm him, she just— “You’re so—so—you just seem to know what to _do_ , so well, and you’re being so patient...” It would have made perfect sense to her that she was not his first in that respect as well.

He didn’t answer her for a while, and Joye might have thought she’d offended or upset him, except that he continued massaging her hands and wrists (now a reciprocal effort), even though the lotion was already well rubbed into her skin. He went to get more, and just as Joye was starting to resign herself to that question going unanswered... “None,” he said softly, as he started to massage it into her back and shoulders.

“Really?” Joye murmured, turning her head to try and look at him.

“Really. What you interpret as experience with virgins—well,” he took a deep breath before continuing, “I’ve never bedded one, but I’ve _been_ one—and I have had years to think on how I would rather have had that night go.”

“Oh,” Joye said, now bowing her head a little—looking at her dangling feet, thinking. If she had known—had even suspected that asking would bring back bad memories... “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You had nothing to do with it.” Stephanivien’s voice was brisker, but his hands stayed gentle yet firm. “It was before we met—one of my uncles hired a courtesan for my seventeenth nameday, he was concerned I wasn’t enough of a man.”

Ah, that would explain that, Joye thought. She could almost picture it, in her head, for he’d been unconventional since she’d first met him and said quality had alternately confused and frustrated almost all of his family—that one of them would take matters into their own hands seemed almost obvious, in retrospect. “That must have been...” She trailed off, half because she was unsure of the words—half because the pads of his thumbs were doing amazing things to the tension in her neck.

“Embarrassing and terrifying, yes. Which is why—“ here he bent low, pressed his lips to her ear and said “—I will do anything to keep it from being such for you.”

“Mmm,” Joye said, and she had meant it to be “Thank you,” but somewhere between the thinking and the voicing Stephanivien’s hands had reshaped it into a moan. His hands were clever like that—in them, the concerns she’d had in the bath were beginning to turn to something else, something more present, more playful, so that the first time he brushed against the top of her towel, Joye murmured “You may,” without further prompting.

Stephanivien chuckled again. “Then I shall,” he returned, and softly pushed it down, down and apart, exposing all of her back to him. This time, though, when he pressed his fingertips to her skin, massaging in that lotion, he also pressed his lips to her shoulder. She startled at it, but let him soothe her alertness, with gentle kisses and subtle fingers—such that when she noticed his hands sliding under the towel, along her sides and to her belly, it was almost lazily, almost carelessly.

Then his fingers slid along her stomach in just the right way, and she burst into giggles. “Ticklish?” Stephanivien sounded delighted, and did it again, then again—then he stopped, let her compose herself. The towel had slid off her front then, Joye realized, but she didn’t mind anymore. In fact, she picked it up from where it lay rumpled on her thighs, and tossed it aside to the floor. Now, when she looked down, she was struck by the difference in skin tone—in the low light, Stephanivien’s tanned hands and arms seemed darker than usual, while her breasts and belly, which were never exposed to the sun, almost had a glow about them. The contrast was pleasing to contemplate, so she did, holding Stephanivien’s hands in hers, directing them not to where they would feel nice, but to where they would look nicest, or perhaps most striking. And she could have diverted herself for some time like that, had Stephanivien not asked “Shall we move to the bed?”

Joye thought about that. She thought about his bed, about how the head had four pillows stacked, about the chills and drafts that his pile of blankets would ward against, about the possibility of sleeping in his arms, and said “Yes, please.”

His immediate response was to hand her the jar of lotion and say “Hold this, please”—then he had lifted her bridal style and in bare seconds had settled her on the bed.

Joye almost said “Aren’t you going to join me?”—almost, but it died after the first half, after he knelt before her dangling legs. 

_Oh_.

Already blushing, Joye unscrewed the lid of the jar and held it out for him. Stephanivien took a dollop of it, and then he—began rubbing it into... her feet.

_Oh_ , she thought again, and then thought about the tinge of disappointment that she felt. She’d thought he would turn his attention to—to her more intimate parts, at last, but it seemed—

_crack_

“Ah!”

“Did that hurt?” Stephanivien went still, and she could hear a tinge of worry.

“In—in the good way, Stephanivien—please, you can...” Still blushing hard, and unsure of the best way to tell him with words, Joye instead scooted closer to the edge of the bed and after a second or so’s hesitation, began to spread her legs apart.

Once again, he chuckled. “All in good time, my dearest,” he said, but at least his hands were moving faster, and up over her ankles, almost up to her calves...

“Stephanivien...” Her voice was almost a whine, and as if in appeasement he bent his head, rested it against her knee.

“Patience is a virtue, beloved,” he murmured. “Let me learn.”

And Joye pouted, but she allowed it. Though inwardly she wondered why her legs and feet, of all things, he wanted to learn—why had he neglected her breasts, her hips, her—

An idea struck her then. Joye reached down to his head, stroked his hair—then tweaked his ear once, then a second time, and now when he turned his gaze up, he would see that with her other hand, she was cupping her breast, teasing at its tip between fore- and middle fingers until her nipple pebbled out firm, and gazing at him—

“Fury...” Stephanivien breathed, and she smiled.

“You can—you can touch me—“ She tipped her head forward in indication, but he shook his.

“Use words for this, my dear,” he said, the gentlest possible chiding, and when her face heated again and she stayed silent, his hands resumed massaging her calves.

Now her pout was accompanied by a frown. What was so important about saying that word, specifically, Joye wondered, still toying with her breasts (now with both hands). Wasn’t it enough if he could tell what she must have meant? It seemed like it should have been, at least to her, and maybe she would think differently if she wasn’t a virgin, but how was _that_ ever going to happen if—

The warm wetness of his lips and tongue on the inside of her knee surprised her, and he smirked before kissing her again. Both of his hands were on her knees, gripping firmly, and he opened his mouth to say something but before he could—

“You may,” Joye said hurriedly, and Stephanivien shook his head fondly at her but he _did_ , he spread and lifted her knees so that she tipped backwards, lying on his bed.

And she was wet, she suddenly realized, because now the—the wet spot she’d left on his sheets was apparent and she wondered when it had happened—and this and Stephanivien’s hands were enough to stop her budding mortification, he was stroking down the whole length of her thighs and his gaze was fixed between them. The sudden temptation to cover her face with her hands was overwhelming—in fact her hands were most of the way there by the time she caught herself—and caught Stephanivien’s eye. And she did wind up burying her beet-red face in her hands when he pointedly licked his lips, prompting soft laughter from him. Then he was silent, then his hands were still for just long enough for her to peek between her fingers—

“Oh!”

—and gasp to feel his lips on the inside of her thighs.

And it was more than just feeling that—his head between her legs meant also feeling his eartips and hair, a patch of slight roughness on his cheek, where he’d missed a spot shaving—but it also wasn’t feeling what she expected. Joye was hyper-aware of how as close as he was to... _there_ , he wasn’t _there_ yet, and she held her breath as he edged ever closer... only to turn aside at the last moment, instead trailing kisses up to the top of her thighs and before she could stop herself she whined in disappointment, fisting her hands in his sheets in frustration.

Again, Stephanivien only laughed. “Is there something you want?” His voice was—different now, low and slow, and beyond a tease, nearly a _taunt—_ “Tell me.”

“You _know_ ,” Joye said, trying to match his tone but (at least to her ears) failing, still too petulant to be properly smooth.

Then Stephanivien had the sheer, unmitigated gall to bat his eyes at her, to feign innocence even as he kissed a trail up her belly. “I don’t think I do, my dear.”

Again she made that frustrated whining sound. “Please—Stephanivien—“ and he was doing it _again_ , he was kissing from over her belly up _between_ her breasts, instead of— “I—I’m begging, please—“

“Please what?” His hands were full of her arse, gently massaging the ample flesh, and she couldn’t take it, not one second longer.

“Please kiss my—my cunny, Stephanivien.” Once the word was said, the world didn’t end, the sky didn’t fall, and no one laughed at her—Stephanivien just smiled at her wide and earnest, leaning up to capture her mouth in a kiss.

“My good girl,” he murmured into her mouth as he broke the kiss, and she offered him a little smile. “Thank you.”

He pulled back away then, turned his gaze down again, and Joye tried to ready herself. What kind of readying a girl needed before her lover kissed her cunny, she wasn’t quite sure, but she adjusted the angle of her hips, the degree her legs were spread, and...

And then he kissed her.

Once again, the sky didn’t fall, the world didn’t end, though a tiny part of Joye had suspected they might. Instead, it felt... it felt strange, mostly, strange and with a hint of pleasure, as his mouth ventured between her lips there. He was a light touch at first, just his lips, peppering her with wet kisses, but...

“Harder?” It occurred to her that she probably should have followed that up with a “please,” but Stephanivien was attentive: before she could, he was mouthing at her harder, and—and yes, that must have been his tongue and goodness but it was strange, a wet tongue sliding along where she was so wet, different from fingers (either her own or Stephanivien’s)... different but _good_ , different but maybe even better—

When he sucked all of her clit between his lips, Joye actually squeaked, tensing all through and trapping his head between her thighs, which prompted him to laugh a little. That sound was just a delicious rumble against her most sensitive parts, and she almost missed that he followed it up with a question: “Then, that’s a good sound, I think?”

“Do it _again_ ,” Joye moaned, and he obeyed, leaving her now speechless as he did it again and harder, more and faster and—

Stephanivien disengaged from her just long enough to say “May I?” and Joye didn’t know what he meant until something prodded at her—at her arse, and it must have been his fingertips... and it didn’t feel bad. It felt almost electric—but she still shook her head.

“No—no, just my cunny,” Joye panted, and his fingers withdrew right away—and she almost missed them, but his mouth was back on her clit, licking, sucking, and yes this was good, better, it’d be enough, she was sure. Under his care, _she’d_ be good, better, enough, different, harder... and that train of thought was derailing because harder, harder, was the only thing she could think harder, harder, could _be_ harder, harder, gripping his hair and curling around his head, tensing and tensing harder, harder—

And a moment later, all she was went lax and loose, slumping sideways into his bed, letting him go with the certainty he’d come up to her at last—yes, settling on the bed delicately behind her. When Stephanivien fondly rested a hand on her shoulder, she reached up to grab and pull it down, until—yes, at last he relented and laid behind her, curling around her, warm and protective, strong and firm all through, and especially, Joye realized, where his cock was prodding against her bottom.

And despite feeling so relaxed that she might have melted, Joye still pushed her bottom against it, against him, wiggling a bit and giggling when she felt his cock twitch, even through his trousers.

“Don’t worry about me,” Stephanivien said, and then pulled back and away, rolling onto his back. “I’ll be fine.”

Joye sat up, briefly glancing at the bulge in his groin before looking up towards his face, her mouth set with determination. “But I want to.”

He raised one eyebrow at her. “Are you quite sure, my dear?—“

“Yes—”

“—if this is in the spirit of one good turn deserving a—“

“I want to, Stephan.” Joye sought his hand with hers, squeezed like she had that day in her room, when he asked if she wanted to try stretching. “May I learn, too?”

After a beat, he smiled, a bit crookedly. “Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want it as well.”

She returned his smile, leaned up to kiss his cheek, and then climbed over his leg to settle on her knees in between them. And for a moment, if that, she was intimidated—he was so much larger than her, his reassuring expression seemed far away—but she put it aside, she focused, and began to unlace the front of his trousers.

When his cock was freed, she took a moment to look it over, consider it in ways other than its dimensions. The round head was the broadest part of it, and a pattern of veins stood out on the shaft—when it stood erect, it listed slightly to his left, even if she tried to nudge it the other way, and Joye suppressed a smile at it. And when she touched it—at first she was hesitant, but the skin of it wasn’t unpleasant or strange at all to touch, rather it was like stroking velvet, smooth and soft to feel, and the contrast between that exterior and the solid hardness underneath that was... curious, and striking. Yes, she’d known that it’d be something like this, but still there’d been things that description alone couldn’t capture... Now toying with the shaft of his cock with both hands, she ran her thumb along the underside of the head—and heard Stephanivien draw in breath sharply. For the first time since she’d knelt between his legs, she looked up to his face and went still. He was _watching_ her, and while she should have (and probably did on some level) expected that, she hadn’t expected the intensity of his dark gaze, his parted lips, how her angle made it clear how much his chest rose and fell with his breathing.

“Again?” she asked, and he nodded. Now, she kept her eyes on his face as she stroked his cock, needing both hands to do it but no longer daunted. She experimented with different rhythms, different tightnesses, until she found one that made his pupils go wide, one that made him gasp and fidget—and with only a little further adjustment—talk.

“That’s it—Joye, that’s my girl,” he was muttering, not taking his eyes off her face, even though it was her hands, her fingers mimicking his clever ones— “Keep going, and I’ll be... gods...” She drew the edges of her blunt nails up the underside of the shaft, all the way, past where the pre was dripping, and he was pressing his knuckle to his mouth. “Quick study, you’re so go— _oooh_...” He was panting, and now occasionally breaking eye contact to tip his head back, looking like he was absolutely luxuriating and like _she could make him feel that way—_

Joye waited. She waited, until he was looking again, and then bent to kiss—

“ _Fuck!”_

Reflexively she jerked back from the burst of seed, only winding up with a little on her face—easily wiped away. And she would have looked around for her towel, to clean the rest away, but Stephanivien had sat up apparently for the sole purpose of pulling her into a crushing embrace, then back to the bed, this time with her splayed atop him.

“Was it—good?” Joye asked, even though she suspected she knew the answer.

“ _Gods_ it was divine, my dear—Gods,” he reached up to her face, stroked her cheek with his thumb, “You are _too cute_ like that.”

“Cute?” That hadn’t been what she’d been expecting him to say, and she giggled half from the surprise of it, “With a cock in my hands?”

At that he just groaned louder, and rolled her over to the bed proper. “ _Adorable_.”

“You are silly,” Joye said, then nestled into his embrace. After a beat, she asked “Now what?”

“Whatever you want, my dear.” Stephanivien’s voice was fond, and even though it had an edge of mischief to it—

“And if I—if I want to just lie here—“

“Like this?” He pulled a blanket over the both of them as he spoke.

“Like this,” Joye echoed. “That’s good?”

“That’s perfect.”


End file.
